


let the ashes fly

by ictus



Category: DCU (Comics), Grayson (Comics)
Genre: Alley Sex, Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Trick or Treat: Trick, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 11:37:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16474823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/pseuds/ictus
Summary: He and Grayson are on opposite sides, their encounters ending in bloodshed more often than not. And yet, M can't shake the feeling that this time, there's something more at play.





	let the ashes fly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geckoholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/gifts).



> Treat (or rather, trick) for geckoholic, thank you for your amazing prompts! Set sometime during Grayson #9, specifically after [this conversation](https://i.imgur.com/F2IOzwO.jpg). Thanks to [brodmann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brodmann/pseuds/brodmann) for the beta and the invaluable feedback.

 

M finds Grayson in the filthy backstreets of London’s West-End.

He’s been laying low since leaving the God Garden, trying to figure out his next move; one that will keep in one step ahead of Spyral and the Gardner alike. Fortunately, predicting what comes next is what he’s good at—the computer in his mind feeding him an endless stream of algorithms and probabilities, a visualisation of all possible outcomes. Despite this, M thinks he never in a million years could have predicted running into Grayson like this.

“Having fun?”

Grayson starts, his fist paused just inches from some thug’s face, and that’s the first clue that something’s wrong. Grayson’s a skilled fighter and part of that means never losing focus of your surroundings. M’s good, can get his stealth on when he needs to, but he’s been watching Grayson pound this guy’s face in for the better part of the last five minutes, his presence gone completely undetected.

“Oh don’t stop on my behalf,” he says, flashing Grayson a vicious grin. “I assume he deserves it.”

The thug is hanging onto consciousness by a thread, groans loudly when Grayson drops him. Grayson immediately steps back into the shadows, drawing his hood as he does so, and that’s the second clue that something’s off. Grayson’s not wearing his usual spy get-up, has traded his uniform for civvies, something nondescript and anonymous. The computer in M’s head ticks into overdrive, trying to make sense of the puzzle before him.

“How did you find me?” His voice is absolutely _wrecked,_ like he’s been swallowing glass.

 _Dumb luck_ , he wants to say. “I have my ways,” is what he decides on instead. Grayson looks like he doesn’t buy it for a second. It’s true that with the Hypnos tech, M had no way of recognising Grayson’s face, but he’s long since learned to read the language of his body, the melody of how he fights. M would know him anywhere.

“You been following me?”

“That depends, you still working for Spyral?”

Grayson’s hands ball into fists.

M grins. “Well I guess that answers that.”

Grayson’s lips curl into a snarl and M’s taken aback by the raw expression of fury. He crosses the distance between them, getting right into M’s space, and M allows himself to be backed against the wall. He’s not one to concede ground but a part of him is curious, wants to see how this plays out.

 “I have work to do. It’s in your best interests to stay out of my way, _Midnighter_.” He spits out the name like a curse and M has to bite back the retort on the tip of his tongue. This close, M can see the microscopic blood splatter on his hoodie, the tiny broken capillaries under his eye that are going to form a hell of a bruise. He holds Grayson’s gaze unwaveringly, the two of them waiting to see who will draw first blood. Distantly, M can hear the sounds of the thug picking himself up and running his sorry ass out of the alley.

Neither of them make an effort to stop him.

When it becomes clear M’s not going to rise to the taunt, Grayson shoves him roughly to the side and makes to leave in the opposite direction. M’s got his back to him but he counts it out in his head, waits until Grayson’s maybe thirty feet away before calling out.

“If you surround yourself with liars and murderers, it’s only a matter of time before you become one yourself.”

Grayson’s footsteps halt right on cue and M can hear the gravel grind under his boot as he shifts his weight. M’s already anticipating his attack, knows from their previous fights there’s a 76% chance he’s going to go for one of those flying kicks he loves so much, and he doesn’t disappoint. M deflects his attack with ease, waiting until the very last moment to turn and strike. He doesn’t need to look to know that his deflection has sent Grayson into a crouched landing, nor to know that Grayson’s rapidly springing into a butterfly kick that he dodges easily.

M’s nerves are sparking with the excitement that comes from a good fight, and it’s not long before they’re falling into a familiar rhythm: strike, parry, dodge, deflect. M fights with his whole body, throwing his weight behind every blow while Grayson moves like liquid around him, his feet touching the ground less often than not.

M’s wearing civvies so when Grayson finally makes contact it gets him _good_ , no carbon-fibre armour to soften the blow. It’s at that precise moment that M realises this isn’t the Grayson he’s used to, the Grayson who will use as much force as necessary and not an iota more. If M didn’t know better, he’d say that Grayson was actively trying to hurt him. The revelation is a shock. Grayson is more than aware that M outmatches him by a mile.

He also knows that M’s never walked away from a fight in his life.

“You got a death wish, kid?” The words have barely left his mouth before he finds himself rolling with a punch that would have surely knocked him out, even with his enhancements.

Grayson bares his teeth, the expression looking out of place on his handsome face. This is a man who walked 200 miles through a scorching desert to save a child in an act of foolish compassion that almost cost him his own life. M can’t reconcile that man with the one who stands before him, fists raised and out for blood.

“Why, you think you’re good enough to grant it?” The banter may be Grayson but the tone is all wrong, and when he changes up his style to something more vicious and unrefined, its unpredictability forces M to lift his game. He delivers an uppercut. This time, he doesn’t hold back.

The sheer force of it is enough to lift Grayson off his feet, his head hitting the opposite wall with a loud crack. Grayson slumps against the rough surface, breathing hard and looking up at M with murder in his eyes. The blow was enough to split his lip, and while M’s fight computer is showing him a dozen different methods of neutralising Grayson, there’s another part of him—perhaps the human part—that’s imagining what it would be like to shove him against the wall and lick the blood out of his mouth, swallow down each and every pretty sound he’d make.

His momentary lapse in concentration is enough to distract him for the time it takes Grayson to lunge at him, forgoing all technique and straight-up body-slamming him. M’s got him outmatched on size, weight and strength, and it’s almost no effort for M to hold his ground.

“ _Bastard,_ ” he grits out as they grapple and swing. “All this time—”

Grayson takes a hit to the solar plexus, forcing him to choke on his words, but he’s relentless, doesn’t know when to let well enough alone. “All those fights, and you were holding out on me?”

M’s grin is razor-sharp as he delivers a kick to Grayson’s chest that puts him on his ass. “Didn’t want to mess up that pretty face of yours too much.” He expects a witty comeback or at the very least an eyeroll, but the taunt only makes him seethe harder. With Grayson spread out at his feet, M can see that he isn’t faring too well. He’s bleeding profusely from a cut below his eye, and judging from the way he winces with every inhalation, he’s probably sporting more than a couple of cracked ribs. Grayson’s always favoured his left leg—likely due to an old injury—and M’s noticed he can barely put any weight on the other.

There’s no question in either of their minds that M’s got him beat, hands down.

“Now that’s out of the way,” he says, crouching down to Grayson’s level, “you wanna tell me what this is all about?”

Grayson’s lips curl into a snarl. He launches himself at M so suddenly that he barely sees it coming, and M has to use all of his force to throw him off. He reverses their positions so he’s got Grayson flat on his chest with one knee pressing down between his shoulder blades, feeling a thrill of excitement at having Grayson pinned beneath him.

“Listen here, _Dick_.” Grayson’s struggling, his hands scrabbling ineffectually against the ground but M doesn’t let up an inch. “I don’t know what’s eating you or why you’ve decided that this was the perfect moment to go off the deep end. But if you go out looking for your death? Chances are you just might find it.”

Grayson lets out a choked gasp that sounds like a sob, the noise eliciting a pang of something sharp and unpleasant deep in M’s chest. He eases off some of his weight and allows Grayson to twist out from under him, figuring all the fight’s gone out of him.

He realises his error too late. Grayson’s barely sitting up before he lashes out, aiming a jab at M’s right eye, fighting dirty and not holding back. M jerks his head back at the last second so that the blow lances off his cheekbone, the underhanded attack burning through just about the last of M’s patience.

Grayson’s still mostly beneath him, his hips pinned by M’s thighs. It’s all too easy to grab Grayson’s wrists and hold them on either side of his head, his stupidly flexible body arching sharply as he tries to headbutt M, nearly dislocating his own shoulders in the process. M arranges his hold so he’s gripping both wrists over Grayson’s head with one hand while the other holds Grayson down by his throat. His grip is bruising, merciless, and he grins in satisfaction as Grayson struggles and gasps beneath him. M was prepared to fight by the rules—wasn’t even out looking for a fight in the first place—but if he’s going to sink to Grayson’s level then he’s not about to do it by halves. He doesn’t let up, just watches Grayson’s eyes cloud and grow distant, the tension leaking out of him as he accepts it’s pointless to struggle.

“Now that you’ve stopped trying to claw my eyes out, why don’t you tell me what this is all about?” He relaxes his grip but leaves his hand there as an unspoken threat. Grayson slowly comes back to him looking dazed, his eyes wide and unseeing.

“Grayson, you with me?” His voice comes out softer than he intends, and when he removes his hand from Grayson’s throat it gravitates immediately to the side of his face. Grayson’s eyes flutter shut as he leans into the touch.

M’s breath hitches. Hesitation is not an concept he’s familiar with, unaccustomed to the way it unfurls in his stomach and makes his heart stutter against his ribs. He doesn’t know what to do.

Releasing Grayson’s wrists seems like a good start, and when he does Grayson immediately lays one hand over M’s and holds it to his face like he’s afraid M’s about to disappear. He’s soaking up M’s touch like he’s starved for it, and when his other hand captures M’s wrist, he’s sure Grayson’s going to do the same with the other.

He’s shocked, then, when Grayson takes his hand and places it back over his throat.

“ _Please_.” It’s so quiet that M would be sure he imagined it if it weren’t for the way his throat works under M’s hand, the way his lips wrap around the word. The way he’s begging with his eyes.

M jerks his hand back but Grayson holds it there, not giving an inch. M could easily break his hold, could pick himself up and walk away from whatever fucked up mess Grayson’s pulling him into without so much as a backwards glance. But there’s something in Grayson’s expression that stills his hand. He could tell himself he’s staying out of curiosity or out of some misplaced sense of responsibility for Grayson’s wellbeing. But M’s not in the habit of lying to himself, and he doesn’t intend to start now.

M doesn’t apply pressure, but he does stop resisting the press of Grayson’s hand. Grayson moulds M’s hand around his throat. He can feel Grayson’s pulse hammering away under his fingers. Time stretches as they both hold their breath, and for a long moment there’s nothing but the distant sounds of the city rumbling around them.

Until finally, M squeezes.

The effect is instantaneous. Grayson drops both his hands by his side, his palms upturned in a gesture of surrender. His whole body arches, pressing against M as he bares his throat to encourage more of his touch. M knows Grayson’s capable of handling more than most but he doesn't want to push it too far. He counts it off in his head, making it to twenty before he relaxes his grip, but Grayson’s hand is back on his again, holding it in place.

“More,” he says, eyes gone hazy.

M hesitates for the briefest of moments before tightening his grip. Grayson arches against him again, his gorgeous mouth forming a soundless moan even as he struggles for breath that will never come. M’s been to enough fetish clubs to know how these things play out, so it comes as no surprise when Grayson’s hips twitch against his, shallow rocking movements that are coming too quickly to be anything but deliberate. M’s own breath hitches when he feels the press of Grayson’s erection against his hip, and when he shifts his position so he’s straddling his hips, Grayson takes that as an open invitation to redouble his efforts.

“Now?” he murmurs quietly.

Grayson squeezes his eyes shut, tears forming at the corners. He can see the desperation in Grayson’s face, feel it in the way he’s moving beneath him. After several long seconds, Grayson finally nods minutely.

M removes his hand, supports his own weight while Grayson shudders and gasps beneath him. M allows him one, two, three breaths before leaning down and taking Grayson’s swollen lip between his teeth, finally giving into the impulse. Grayson responds exactly as he’d imagined, a tiny whimper escaping his throat that M finds impossibly gratifying. He releases Grayson’s lip and but doesn’t draw back, the two of them sharing the same breath. Grayson pauses for a beat before he’s grabbing M roughly and pressing their lips together. Grayson channels all of his desperation into the kiss, frantically running his hands through M’s hair, down his back, grabbing onto any part within reach. M gives into it and lets him set the pace, now matching every grind of Grayson’s hips and finding himself equally desperate.

When they finally break apart, M says, “hold up, I can call a door and we can—”

But then Grayson hooks a leg around his hips and uses it as leverage to grind against him, and the words die in his throat. M is hard and leaking in his slacks and by the looks of things, Grayson’s in a similar state. M thinks longingly of his hotel room ten blocks from here, thinks of laying Grayson out on his bed, being able to touch his bare skin. Imagines taking him apart with his fingers nice and slow, watching him fall to pieces under his hands until he’s begging for it.

All thoughts of the hotel rapidly dissolve once Grayson snakes a hand between their bodies and traces the outline of his erection through his pants. M bucks helplessly and Grayson takes it as encouragement, grinding the heel of his palm against M’s dick through far too many layers of fabric.

M can feel his control rapidly slipping under Grayson’s touch, so he decides to level the score. Grayson’s pulse is still racing when M presses his hand against his throat, and he lets out a breathless _oh_ as M fits his hand snug against his jaw. Grayson’s hand stills against him and M doesn’t even try to hold back his smirk, just watches Grayson unravel beneath him, his eyes hooded and dark. Grayson shudders and shakes once M finally lets up, and it’s all M can do to stop himself from kissing him again, from stealing his hard-earned breath right back from him.

He’s just about to give into the urge when Grayson speaks.

“Up,” he rasps, pushing at M’s shoulders. M stumbles to his feet, feeling his back hit the wall. Grayson’s still on his knees, and M only has a moment to be confused by the sudden change of course before Grayson’s attacking his belt, surprisingly coordinated considering he was on the verge of blacking out only moments prior.

“ _Christ,_ ” he mutters, letting his head fall back against the wall. M takes a second to strain his senses and is grateful for his enhanced hearing because while Grayson may seem unconcerned, M’s all too aware of the fact that they’re still in public. By the time he’s determined that no one’s likely to approach them any time soon, Grayson’s got his pants undone, one hand on his dick while the other deftly undoes his own pants.

Grayson pauses with the head of M’s dick resting against his lower lip, looking up at M with a heat in his eyes that ignites fresh surge of arousal deep in his gut. M steadies him with a gentle press of his hand to the back of Grayson’s head, and that seems to be what he was waiting for, seems to be all the encouragement he needed. Grayson swallows him down in one fluid movement and M can’t stop his hips from stuttering forward, pushing more of himself into Grayson’s mouth. Grayson moans around him, his tongue working rapidly at the underside of M’s dick as he struggles to take him deeper.

Grayson looks so good like this, on his knees, dark lashes fanned out against his cheekbones, lips stretched wide around M’s cock. He’s own hand has found its way into his pants where he’s touching himself unselfconsciously, and M groans at the sight, pushes himself deeper into Grayson’s mouth. Grayson’s throat constricts around his dick and M recalls the image of him fucked-out and desperate as M cut off his air. So instead of drawing back, he tightens his grip in Grayson’s hair and just _holds_ him there. Grayson’s answering moan feels incredible, and M feels him shudder and go lax even as his throat continually works around him.

M’s been more or less quiet up to this point but suddenly everything he wants to say is spilling from his lips, meaningless nonsense like _feels so good_ , and _you’re incredible_ , and _fuck you’re gorgeous, thought so the moment I met you_. M feels his face heat at the admission, feeling it too honest for this game they’re playing, but Grayson just shivers with it, the colour high on his own cheeks. When M finally draws back, Grayson’s face is a mess and he’s gasping for air, his hand moving on his own cock with abandon. M figures he’s close if the way he’s fucking his fist is anything to go by, and M’s not too far off himself. He waits a moment for Grayson to catch his breath but Grayson’s back on him within seconds, working his cock in a way that has M’s knees trembling.

“Fuck,” he grunts, both hands in Grayson’s hair now, setting the pace. “Gonna let me come down that pretty throat of yours?”

Grayson moans and drops his free hand to his lap, fully relinquishing control. M swears again as his orgasm hits him hard, holding Grayson in place with one hand while he tries his damnedest to support himself against the wall with the other. Grayson just takes it all, his throat working desperately even as tears form at the corners of his eyes, drawing M’s orgasm out of him along with a series of gasps and curses.

When M comes back to himself, he senses rather than sees Grayson’s movements slow to a stop. Grayson’s breathing hard and riding out the tail-end of his own orgasm, eyes closed and chest heaving, looking absolutely debauched. There are already bruises forming under his jaw and across his throat, and M barely holds back a smirk when he realises his Spyral uniform won’t come close to covering them.

M quickly fixes his pants and scans the alley again, confirming they’re still alone. He reaches for Grayson but he’s already stumbling to his feet, rebuttoning his pants with his back to M, leaning against the opposite wall like it’s the only thing that can hold him up right now.

M’s skin prickles uncomfortably, finding himself in uncharted territory with no clear path forward. “You alright?” he asks, even though everything about the way Grayson’s acted tonight suggests otherwise.

“I’m fine,” he says still not turning around, his voice carefully even.

M’s crossing the alley before he can think better of it, turning Grayson to face him with a hand on his arm. Grayson’s eyes are wide and startled, but he makes no effort to free himself from M’s hold. “C’mon Grayson, don’t pull that one on me.”

M knows he doesn’t deserve an explanation—that Grayson doesn’t owe him jack—but he can’t help but feel entitled to one. His relationship with Grayson has been tumultuous even at the best of times, what with their conflicting allegiances and the fact that their encounters end in bloodshed more often than not. But all of that seems to fall away in the face of just how _ruined_ Grayson looks right now, at how messed up he looked even before M stepped out of the shadows and goaded him into a fight.

M changes tack. “Why did you come out here tonight?”

Grayson doesn’t answer. M thinks of Grayson’s mark, how he beat him ruthlessly only to let him escape without a second thought. Thinks of his outfit and the fact he’s not wearing a comm unit.

“Spyral didn’t send you here.”

Grayson bites his swollen lip like he’s not sure he trusts himself to speak.

“I—no.”

“Who sent you, then?” Grayson’s mouth is a hard line, but M knows. “Was it Batman?”

Grayson looks away, his face twisted in a pained expression.

“Tell me about the mission, Dick.” If this concerns Spyral then M’s not walking away without answers. Grayson tries to wrench his arm free, but M holds him fast.

“Dick, what were you doing out here?”

Grayson shudders, and it’s like all of his defences crumble at once. He’s pulling his arm away from M even as he buries his face in his shoulder, his breathing harsh and ragged on M’s neck. M holds him for a beat but he flinches at the first touch of M’s hand to the nape of his neck, plasters himself against the wall like he can’t get away from M quickly enough. M’s throat constricts, unease rising in his chest. He can’t get a read on Grayson, is completely thrown by his mixed signals.

“Dick—”

“I don’t know—okay?” Grayson’s face is open and vulnerable, his voice anguished. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” His voice breaks on the last word, like he’s been defeated by his own admission.

M takes a moment weigh Grayson’s words against what he already knows. Grayson’s been in spandex since he was a kid, has lived his life behind a mask. His whole world was about taking to the streets to fight crime. When that was taken away, where exactly did it leave him?

“You were patrolling.”

It’s not a question and Grayson doesn’t answer. It makes sense, M figures. His latest intel puts Spyral HQ somewhere in the UK, and London’s the only major city that has a crime rate to rival Gotham’s. If Grayson wanted to take a trip down memory lane and relive his crimefighting days, there would be no better place to do it.

Grayson watches him reach an understanding, something defiant in his expression as if he’s daring M to make a smart-ass comment. For once, he comes up empty. Grayson’s already putting his walls back up, his jaw set and his eyes cold, looking more and more like Agent 37 with every passing second.

“I have to get back.” His voice is even and controlled, and M’s almost about to leave it at that. But he never could resist twisting the knife.

“To Gotham?” He’s tone is light, the question innocent enough. M feels like he’s finally on the cusp of uncovering something, and he can’t let that go.

Grayson’s face immediately darkens. “No Midnighter, to Spyral. You know, with the _liars and murders_. Because that’s what I do, remember? I’m a spy.”

M holds his gaze. His words from the God Garden echo in his mind, resurfacing with a sudden clarity. _Spyral is about treachery, deception, lies. You think you’re still the good guy, but you’ve changed. You’re just lying to yourself. You’re one of them now._

Judging by his cold expression, Grayson’s thinking of much the same thing. He finally pulls his arm free, pushing M away.

“Wait, Grayson—”

But Grayson doesn’t stop. M hadn’t expected him to. He’s already drawing his hood over his head and disappearing into the shadows. Even with his enhanced vision M can barely make out his silhouette as he effortlessly scales the fire escape, disappearing from M’s sight without once looking back.

M loiters in the alley long after Grayson disappears, something uncomfortable twisting in his chest. He thinks of feeling Grayson’s throat under his fingers. Thinks of the sound he made when he kissed him. Thinks of the taste of blood in his mouth.

He swears out loud in the empty alley, tries to clear his head. Finally, he turns on his heel and strides towards the mouth of the alley.

“Door.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/scansionictus).


End file.
